Sometimes
by Necoto
Summary: Sometimes, he wishes he was different. So then he wouldn't have to watch his dying mother with nothing but a blank face, completely devoid of any emotion.


Timeline: Before Kurama goes and steals the Forlorn Hope.

Disclaimer: Yu Yu Hakusho does not belong to me.

* * *

**Sometimes**

Sometimes, he thinks he's better off leaving. This isn't his life; it will never be his life. He simply doesn't belong here. He is destined for greater things, destined to have his name feared, respected, and revered. He should leave, and he will, someday, he keeps telling himself.

But he makes no move to do so, even when his strength returns to him fully. Not today, he murmurs quietly to no one. He'll leave tomorrow, go back to his world tomorrow, he promises himself.

And yet, plenty of tomorrows fly by and he is still here, not unable to move, but unwilling. There is nothing binding him here, and yet, as soon as he decides to step foot outside his boundaries, something almost painful attacks him in his chest, and it is a fight he gives up quite easily. He retracts his foot, all thoughts of leaving pushed aside to a tomorrow that will never come.

At night, when he closes his eyes in the pretense of surrendering to sleep, those thoughts plague his mind, and he wonders about the unseen force that is holding him back. And despite the brilliant intellect he possesses, he still has yet to figure out why he is consciously refusing his own freedom.

Sometime after he closes his eyes and is lying motionlessly in bed, he feels a presence walk into his room and a soft hand running through his hair. Then, like every night before in his human life, he feels lips placed gently on his forehead and a whispered 'sweet dreams' before he is left alone in his room again.

And it is only after this nightly ritual that his body unwinds and relaxes, all pretense of sleep fading away, and he is plunged into the realm of dreams.

Sometimes, he thinks he's better off leaving, and then he wonders to himself why there's a sometimes there instead of an always. He looks around his human home with his new emerald eyes, specks of glittering gold now only a fragment of the past, and he cannot help but feel a sense of bitterness towards it. His eyes then stray towards the human woman cooking in the kitchen, and something pricks at his chest.

Her hands, the very ones that run through his hair every night, are scarred, and though they are faded, he knows that they will never disappear from her skin, and suddenly, the resentment he feels towards his human surroundings melt into a deep guilt that casts a shadow over his soul. He averts his eyes, unable to look at her, and knows now why he doesn't always think of leaving; he knows now why his thoughts of escaping are growing less and less often as more days pass by.

Sometimes, whether he is willing to admit it to himself or not, he wishes he were human. And he thinks that he doesn't mean just in possession of a human body—he already has that. He wishes he were human, so then he'd be able to feel more than just pain and anger and regret all carefully shielded behind an impenetrable mask. He wants to feel what she feels for him; he wants to know what exactly it was that compelled her to save him from his clumsy mistake. But most importantly, he thinks, he wants to know if he would have done the same had he been in her place.

And he thinks—he knows—that he would not have sacrificed himself to save her.

He knows that he would have just watched her fall—watched the plates shatter and break and pierce her skin as he stands by silently, uncaring and with cold indifference painted across his face. And it is at moments like this that the guilt washes over him almost completely.

Sometimes, he wishes he had died that fateful day instead. He doesn't deserve her, he thinks. He doesn't deserve all the kindness and compassion and love that she unconditionally showers him with. And he knows that she doesn't deserve him. She deserves better.

She deserves someone human—she deserves her son that he is supposed to be but is not. And while she lives in ignorance, the truth eats at him inside. Better, he thinks, she deserves better, and yet, she is cursed with him.

Sometimes, all he feels for himself is a deep hatred. He hates himself for getting attached and still remaining in this world. He hates himself for causing her pain with his detached air and unspoken superiority. He hates himself for being perfectly healthy while looking through the glass window at his dying mother in the hospital bed.

But most of all, he hates himself for just standing there and doing absolutely nothing, just like how he always envisioned himself in his thoughts.

* * *

Yes, this is kind of pointless... but... review?


End file.
